Actions Speak Louder Than Words
by Bellarsam Chrisjulittle
Summary: Post TRH, AU from there, multi-chapter Mollcroft. Mycroft Holmes realizes what a burden his little brother has put on Molly Hooper's shoulders by asking for her help, and feels the unfamiliar need to ease that burden somehow. So he offers to share his place of sanctuary, seeing that they must share this secret. But that act of kindness turns out to be just the beginning...
1. Chapter 1

**One**

When Sherlock Holmes asked Dr. Molly Hooper for help in faking his death and subsequently keep the knowledge of his being alive for as long as he was off destroying the criminal network of James Moriarty, he truly didn't know how much he was asking of her. Granted, there were certainly larger and more pressing matters that required his immediate attention, but even so…the young pathologist did not deserve to carry such a terrible burden on her shoulders for such an indefinite – but certainly long – period of time.

It was at the funeral of his little brother that Mycroft Holmes came to this revelation. All he had to do was look at her to see how much pain, worry and guilt she was secretly carrying. It made the grief of Mrs. Hudson, Detective Inspector Lestrade, even Dr. Watson, seem almost trivial. She stood apart from the other three, her face deathly white, the knuckles of her folded hands even tighter, and her eyes bright with moisture. She wasn't even sobbing, as the other three were (though Lestrade and Dr. Watson tried to disguise them behind coughs and clearings of the throat), but stood still as a statue. The way her shoulders were held so stiffly brought to Mycroft's mind the famous image of Atlas, carrying the world on his shoulders.

It was then that Mycroft had a thought that he had never had before: _I must do something for her. _Shocked at himself, Mycroft tried to brush it away, but the thought was so strong and powerful that he couldn't. Looking at her as the service ended, Mycroft knew that he could not ignore it and had to follow through with it.

_But how? What on Earth could she want from me?_ The only thing that came to mind was news of his little brother, but that he could not give just yet. His little brother was en route to his first location, being smuggled in a cargo boat, and consequently would not be able to make outside contact until he landed in his port.

_But surely there must be something else that can be done? _Now extremely surprised with himself for thinking this train of thought so vehemently, Mycroft shook his head a bit. The short service had now come to an end, and the government official could think of nothing better than to head to his club and private room for some peace and quiet –

_Ah, of course!_ He had found a solution to his dilemma.

* * *

><p>At the end of the short funeral service, Molly kept her farewells and condolences to Greg, Mrs. Hudson, and John as short as possible. It hurt so much to even look at them, knowing what she knew and knowing that she had the power to end all of their misery but couldn't. Once that was done, Molly walked through and out of the cemetery as quickly as she could without outright running or tripping over her modest black heels. Her black coat she wrapped tightly around herself against the damp autumn breeze. Thankfully, she managed to get out of the cemetery without anybody noticing or calling after her.<p>

When she reached the sidewalk, just as she was about to flag down a cab, an elegant black car pulled up to the curb right in front of her. The back door opened, but nobody came out. Confused, Molly stepped back and looked around for whom the car had come for. She soon found out.

From the cemetery and towards her came Mycroft Holmes. In his long black coat, with his brolly firmly gripped in his hand, he looked every bit as imposing as his car. "Oh, excuse me, Mr. Holmes," she said, lowering her head and turning to walk further down the block to catch a cab. But a black-gloved hand on her elbow stopped her; the grip was firm but gentle.

"Dr. Hooper, please accept a ride home from me," Mycroft said, his quiet tone identical to his grip on her elbow.

Lifting her head, Molly looked him in the eyes. She saw nothing but a genuine entreaty to accept his offer, so after a moment she nodded and allowed herself to be led back to the car. He opened the back passenger door for her and, to her surprise, he got in after her. Mycroft gave her address to the driver, who promptly left the curb and joined the London traffic again.

Molly had no idea what to say to the man sitting beside her, and thankfully he did not seem to want conversation. The older Holmes seemed preoccupied with work, writing something down in a memo pad he'd extracted from his inner jacket pocket. Wanting not to seem nosy, Molly turned her gaze to her window. But she saw nothing of London rushing past, being too preoccupied in her own miserable thoughts and worries. Would every other day be as hard as the last four had been? Or would they only get harder? Sherlock had asked her to look after his friends for her, but how could she really do that when just looking at them caused her to wish she were dead? But how could she worry about herself with Sherlock God-knows-where, on the run and dead to the world, with a near-impossible mission before him and not able to come home for months, if not years…

The young pathologist pressed the fingers of her left hand to her forehead, applying pressure to her pounding head (it didn't do any good). _What a mess…what a terrible, awful, miserable mess…_

"Dr. Hooper."

She jumped at the sound of her name, and the feeling of a hand placed hesitantly on her forearm. Turning her head, she saw that it was Mycroft (_Duh, Molly, who else would it be?_). "Huh?" she said dumbly.

"We're at your flat."

Looking out of her window, she saw that he was, indeed, right; she hadn't felt when the car had come to a stop. "Oh, right, of course, um…" She nodded at him, and tried her best to give him a smile. "Thanks."

He nodded back, that gentle look still in his eyes. "Anytime, Dr. Hooper. I will let you know when I have any news."

A drop of relief fell into Molly's pool of worries. "I appreciate that, Mr. Holmes…Take care of yourself." With that, Molly got out of the car and approached her building. The black car had gone by the time she was inside.

* * *

><p>Once Molly was outside her flat's front door, she reached inside her coat pocket for her keys. When she did, she felt a folded piece of paper nestled beside them that most certainly hadn't been there when she'd put her coat on before leaving a few hours ago. Curiously, she pulled it out and unfolded it. The paper was small, as if ripped from a memo pad…<em>Mycroft passed me a note? <em>He must have slipped it into her jacket pocket after writing it while she'd been lost in her worries. Now more curious than ever, she read the short message that was written in crisp, elegant script:

_Dr. Hooper,_

_ I know what a large burden you must bear in keeping my little brother's biggest secrets. If ever you feel the need to escape, for sanctuary, or for simple and peaceful silence, I would like to offer a solution. I have left with you one of two keys to my exclusive private room of my club: The Diogenes. I am there every day from a quarter to five till twenty to eight. However, nine times out of ten I will not be in my private room, which I only use for rare occasions when I need absolute peace and solitude from others, so you need never worry about disturbing me. _

_ The address I have listed below; it should not be hard to find. When you arrive, show the key to Henry at the front desk, which will be all he needs to allow you entrance. He knows I would not allow that key to fall into anybody's hands by accident. If I am using the room, he will know and tell you, and you can come back when I have left. _

_ You are under no obligation to accept this offer; you do not know me and so have no reason to give me your full trust. I only ask that, if or when you refuse, you phone me so we can arrange that you return my key to me. And please believe me when I say that I do not wish to make an already difficult situation even harder for you to bear. _

_Sincerely, Mycroft Holmes_

After looking over the address, which was in Pall Mall and not far from the Carlton, Molly reached back into her pocket. Pulling out her keys, she found an unfamiliar one among them which was not hooked to her key ring. It was a skeleton key, made of old brass but well-polished. It felt heavy but warm in her palm.

As she closed her hand around it while opening her front door, remembering how hard this day and past days had been, Molly already knew that she would at least give this offer a chance.


	2. Chapter 2

**Two**

Molly had never truly understood the expression "weary to the bone" until now, as she washed up after her last post-mortem. She had worked a twelve-hour shift, from midnight to noon. It was originally only meant to be an eight-hour shift, but a bus crash five blocks over at dawn had meant all hands on deck in the pathology department. Not only did Molly's body ache from her long and active shift, but her emotions felt wrecked after seeing so many innocent casualties come through her doors, four of them young children.

But more than anything, Molly felt tired. No, not tired – _absolutely exhausted. _Since Sherlock's fall nine days ago, she had grabbed every chance of overtime or subbing shifts as she could. Work could always help her forget her worries and troubles before, but it wasn't working properly now. Every time she came into the lab and spotted the microscope that Sherlock used, she remembered him sitting at it, working diligently; if she was doing a post-mortem in the morgue, she remembered when he would come in without asking and stand beside her as she worked on the victim of his latest mystery. These moments happened more than several times a shift, and it hurt Molly's heart every time. Still, this was better than sitting in her flat all alone with nothing substantial to distract her from the heavy burden she carried. And, to top everything off, Molly could barely sleep. She could only manage a few hours a night, each of those hours were filled with anxiety dreams.

Safe to say, Molly felt at the end of her rope.

After putting on her coat that she had retrieved from her locker, her hand absently fell into the left pocket. When she felt folded paper inside, Molly pulled it out and said, "Oh," in recognition. It was Mycroft's note that he'd given her the day of the funeral. She had forgotten about his offer to her, and the few times it had crossed her mind since the funeral, Molly had brushed it away. Part of her had not wanted to be a bother, and part of her wanted to distance herself from anything related to what had happened nine days ago.

But reading the note over again now, Molly was struck again by how kind and considerate the note was. The fact that Mycroft was willing to share something so private with her really touched her heart, and this made her remember her resolution to give this a try. Checking the note again, Molly saw that she would have a good few hours before Mycroft would come to the Diogenes Club, so she decided that there was no time like the present. If this "sanctuary" did nothing for her, then she would thank him, return his key, and carry on as best she could.

Such a thought really made Molly hope that this would work.

* * *

><p>On the cab ride to the Diogenes Club, Molly looked over and memorized the instructions that Mycroft had given her in the note. She was relieved when the cab stopped and she saw that she had given the correct address to the cabbie. After paying him, she quickly got out and stuck her hands in her coat pockets. In the left pocket, she felt the note from Mycroft; in the right, she felt her set of keys, specifically the skeleton key that Mycroft had put on it. She'd been keeping it in her purse, as forgotten as the note had been until today.<p>

The building itself did not stand out from the other elegant ones on the same block, and that comforted Molly somewhat. It made her feel more like she was coming here to hide, to escape, to disappear anonymously rather than stand out. This gave her the final drop of courage that she needed to walk up to the oaken front door and go through it.

Once inside, Molly could feel an atmosphere of quiet settle over her like humidity in a rainforest. The front hall was sparse but extremely elegant, with a marble floor and a dark-wood reception desk. Behind the latter sat a man in his sixties, with silver hair neatly combed and wearing a perfectly-pressed dark suit. Her footsteps alerted him to a new presence, and he immediately looked up from the book he had been reading. "May I help you, miss?" he asked, his voice deep and pleasant.

Remembering Mycroft's note, Molly pulled out her keys from her coat pocket, making sure to display the skeleton key. "Um, yes, my name is –"

"Ah, Miss Hooper, of course!" A genuine smile came to the man's face as he stood up and walked around the desk. "I am Henry, as I'm sure you've been told. Mr. Holmes told me that you may come. I am glad that you have. Please follow me, and I will show you to your room."

"Uh, thank you, Henry, but it's not mine, it's his."

"Miss Hooper, in the twenty-five years that Mr. Holmes has been a member of this club, never before has he given his second key to anybody. As long as you have that key, that room will be yours as much as his."

Not knowing how to respond to that at all, Molly stayed silent and followed Henry up the flight of marble stairs behind the reception desk. When they reached the landing, just before one of two sets of double doors, Henry stopped them and turned towards her.

"Some things I should tell you before you enter the club itself. The first and most paramount rule here is silence; except in the front hall area and private rooms, no words are allowed to be spoken or your membership will be revoked. To some it is strange, but this club was made in order to give a refuge from all of the noise and bustle of London life. Also, we only have one or two female members, all around my own age, and they always keep to private rooms. So the men in the common area will not expect to see a pretty young lady here. You should keep that key in view for them to see, just so they do not start a wondering panic. They won't openly object, do not worry; they are just very old-fashioned and set in their ways. Thankfully, all private rooms are soundproofed, so once inside you may do whatever you please."

Molly nodded in understanding, obediently lifting the skeleton key to her chest for all to see. Henry smiled approvingly, turned, and opened one of the elegant doors. Molly followed him with her lips sealed shut, determined not to give a bad impression. As they walked through the large common area, she kept her eyes on the back of Henry's silver head. From the corners of her eyes, she saw that this room seemed just as elegant as the front hall but also quite comfortable. She heard roaring fires, the clink of glasses, and smelled cigars and pipe tobacco. She could feel eyes land on her in surprise rather than hostility, and this calmed the blazing in her cheeks that she felt.

Finally, Henry stopped before an oaken door at the opposite end of the large common area, and indicated for her to open it with her key. She did so carefully, irrationally afraid that she would break the key or jam it in the lock. But she didn't: it was a perfect fit, and the heavy door opened noiselessly. She stepped over the threshold and turned to look back at Henry. He gave a gentle and reassuring smile before shutting the door between them.

Now alone, Molly turned to have a better look at her new sanctuary, and couldn't help but gasp. It was absolutely beautiful. She felt as though she had stepped back in time and into the private study of a Victorian noble. The colors were dark and rich: dark mahogany furniture, rich burgundy walls, forest green and royal blue Persian rugs, even a medieval tapestry hanging on one of the walls. A second wall was completely covered by a large bookshelf filled with old and leather-bound books. A beautifully carved desk sat in one corner, a lovely cabinet piano was in another, and before an equally beautifully carved fireplace was a lounge chair and a sofa.

Both, especially the sofa, were stuffed substantially and looked irresistibly comfortable. As if under a spell, Molly gravitated towards the sofa, with its stuffed cushions and plush pillows. After stripping off her coat and tossing it and her purse on the lounge chair, Molly lowered herself onto the sofa. It was even more comfortable than it looked, if that was at all possible. All of the fatigue and weariness came rushing back to Molly like a tidal wave.

_Well, maybe I'll just rest my eyes for a few minutes, _she thought as she kicked off her shoes, loosened her ponytail, and laid herself down on the sofa. She had a fleeting thought that silence had never been so comforting before falling into a deep, very long overdue, sleep.

* * *

><p>At quarter to five on the dot, Mycroft Holmes entered the Diogenes Club as he did every day (unless he had an urgent meeting or was out of the city). Usually, he and Henry just exchanged a friendly nod, but the man looked so pleased to see him that he thought he had better exchange a greeting. "Afternoon, Henry. Good day?"<p>

"Good day, Mr. Holmes! Before you go up, I must tell you that your room is occupied."

The smile on Henry's face confirmed Mycroft's first suspicions when he'd first saw Henry's pleased face at the sight of him. A warm feeling spread over his heart as relief spread over his mind, but none of that showed on his face to Henry. "I see. When did she arrive?"

"About a quarter after noon, sir," replied Henry. At Mycroft's raised eyebrows, Henry looked even more pleased. "She must really have taken a fancy to the place, Mr. Holmes. Had a feeling she would; she seems like a good girl."

Mycroft paused before quietly answering. "Yes, I believe she is." Snapping back to his usual cool but pleasant exterior, he said, "Well, thank you for informing me, Henry. I was going to keep to the common area today, anyway. Please continue to inform me if and when Molly has come here."

"Very good, sir," said Henry, nodding his head before returning to his book.

Mycroft walked up the familiar marble steps with a bit more spring than usual. He was pleased that his first genuine and freely given act of kindness had been accepted rather than fallen on deaf ears. Then again, Molly Hooper struck him as the kind of person who would never ignore, turn away from, or not see an act of kindness. _No wonder Sherlock trusts her with his life._

The thought of his brother made Mycroft decide to go to his private room, though it was occupied. He'd learned this morning that the first step in Sherlock's long mission had been completed successfully, and his brother was (temporarily) safe. As long as they were both here, Mycroft thought it only wise to pass along the piece of information in person rather than a coded text message, as he'd done the last time to inform her Sherlock had safely gotten to his first destination.

Perhaps she would even smile, most likely for the first time since this whole mess began. Mycroft found that he would not mind seeing such a sight in the slightest, and furthermore, he didn't really care. Thankful that the door and locks were silent here, Mycroft fit his own key the door when he reached it, and slowly opened it to look inside.

Once he spotted her, he entered and softly shut the door behind him. The sight which met his eyes affected his heart in a way he couldn't describe because he never felt it before. Molly was fast asleep, curled on her side and hands under the pillow. The large sofa cushions and her baggy work clothes made her appear small and fragile; her relaxed expression only sharpened the pale cheeks and dark circles beneath her closed eyes. Seeing her like this, Mycroft knew it would be a terrible sin to wake her now.

But still he wanted to do something; for a second time, the urge to give an act of kindness took over him, and thankfully it didn't take him long to figure out what. Swiftly and silently, he walked to the small closet door behind his desk, and pulled out a folded fur blanket. Walking back to the sofa, he unfolded it and carefully draped it over her. Once he had tucked it securely around her, Molly moaned a bit and snuggled into the warmed. Her sleeping face changed from relaxed to peaceful.

Satisfied with himself, but also not comfortable with the strange emotions this little woman was bringing about, Mycroft silently left the room for the common area. He would text her the news of his brother later, when she would be awake and not so close by.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **_Sorry this update took so long. Busy work/rehearsal schedule, lack of response to this story, and writer's block all got in the way. I promise I'll post another chapter by Christmas (and a Christmas Sherlolly story if you're good to me.)_


	3. Chapter 3

**Three**

_Saturday, December 24__th__, Christmas Eve_

_Dear Mr. Holmes,_

_ You have shown great kindness to me ever since the funeral by sharing your private room with me and giving me updates. I'm sure Henry has told you how many times I have come here, which is every day for about a month now, and that should be more than enough to let you know how great my appreciation is. Mere words, I feel, are not enough to express my gratitude. So I would like, if I can, to try and repay your kindness._

_ It wouldn't surprise me if, like Sherlock, you set very little importance on holidays like Christmas. But I do, and I've always felt that nobody should spend the day alone. I'll be here at the club at the time you usually come tomorrow; I'll have a few baked goods for the day, and I also have a small Christmas gift for you. I'll understand if you would rather pass up on my company, so I'll leave the things in the room for you to find the next day, if that's what you wish._

_ Even as I read this note over, it is more than clear that my company and little gifts will be very feeble and hardly worth your time, which I'm sure you consider very valuable. However, it is the best that I can give, and I hope that you can at least appreciate the thought. If I don't see you tomorrow, and even if you don't care, I wish you a very Happy Christmas._

_Sincerely, Molly_

Once she'd finished her note, Molly wasted no time in folding up the paper, slipping it into an envelope, and sealing it tightly. She knew that it was the best she could write and not sound too stupid or pathetic; each word had been chosen as carefully as she could. She had wanted to thank him for that first time she'd come here, the gesture with the blanket, but she felt it would only embarrass him. She'd been shocked that she'd slept for eight hours on that sofa in the first place, and the blanket had only shocked her more. She was sure he would know that she knew, and that was enough. All she could do with it now was put his name on the envelope and make sure it got delivered.

* * *

><p>At quarter to five, right on schedule, Mycroft entered the Diogenes Club. As he swept the snowflakes off the shoulders of his great-coat, he noticed that Henry was looking at him in a way that said he had reason to speak to him beyond the usual greetings today. "Afternoon, Henry," he said as he approached the reception desk.<p>

"Good day, Mr. Holmes," he greeted cheerily, pulling a simple white envelope from his jacket's inside pocket. "Miss Hooper was here earlier today. She left about an hour ago, and asked me to give you this." He held out the envelope to Mycroft.

Mycroft's only indication of his surprise was a slight raising of his right eyebrow as he took the envelope from Henry. "Thank you."

"You're very welcome, and since I'll be with my family tomorrow, Happy Holidays!"

All Mycroft managed in return was a nod, his attention on the envelope that he had just received. He restrained himself from opening it until he was safely inside his private room; he did not want to be surrounded by others when he read her letter (he could feel by the weight of the envelope that it only contained a single sheet).

Very carefully, Mycroft unsealed the envelope, pulled out the letter, and unfolded it. Her handwriting was a simple, pretty cursive that perfectly reflected her.

The elder Holmes brother had to read it over several times before her words truly sank in. Never before had he himself received such an offer of kindness, with no ulterior motive or demand for something in return. It felt…words could not describe it, but it was not a bad feeling at all. In fact, a pleasant warmth spread through his chest at this little revelation. The way she had written, so humbly and without presumption, as if she fully expected him to ignore or reject her offers. Well, could he really blame her for that? People did call him "The Iceman" for a reason, after all.

And yet…and yet, he did not want that to be how she viewed him.

Sherlock had not – and would never, he knew – confide in him as to his reasons for putting his trust in Molly Hooper. However, he could fathom a reason or two. All of his life, Mycroft had known that anybody his brother allowed to be close to him were not only individuals who could tolerate Sherlock's eccentricities. More importantly, these were people who could see that Sherlock was not a sociopath – he only tried so hard to be one, to the point where he believed it himself.

Mycroft Holmes, who was more intelligent than his brother, knew that he certainly seemed more like a sociopath than his brother when put side-by-side, but he was also wise enough to know that he wasn't one (though there were certainly times he wished he was).

If Dr. Hooper could see that Sherlock was not what he'd convinced himself he was, he hoped that she would see the same in him.

* * *

><p>On Christmas Day, Molly arrived at the Diogenes Club at 4:30 PM, fifteen minutes before Mycroft was due to arrive. She felt pretty certain that they would not see each other, but Molly had said that she would be in the private room when he would be at the club and she would keep her word.<p>

When she arrived, her hands were full with both a container and wrapped plates of baked goods: brownies, little fruitcakes, and Christmas cookies. Her load lessened as she made her way through the common area, which was no less crowded on this holiday than on any other day. As she placed a wrapped place on coffee and side-tables, she made eye contact with the men sitting near them, nodded and gave a warm smile – a silent way of saying "Happy Holidays." All of them looked shocked by her actions, but a few smiled back at her in appreciation.

Once inside of the private room, now familiar but just as comforting to her a month later, Molly placed the container of baked treats she had brought with her on the coffee table in front of the sofa. Then, Molly reached into her purse and pulled out a present wrapped in emerald green paper with a silver bow. She placed it beside the container with a sigh. She was now quite convinced that she would not see Mycroft today, so she would leave these for him to find tomorrow.

Deciding to make the room a little warmer and Christmas-y, Molly walked to the fireplace and made a fire. Once it was roaring, her gaze wandered to the cabinet piano in the corner. The sight had tempted her for a month, but now the day really drew her to it. Sitting down at it, she gingerly lifted the lid and looked at the black-and-white keys. Knowing that the room was sound-proofed and she would disturb no one, Molly gently placed her fingers on the keys.

_God, how many years has it been since I've done this? _Molly thought, cringing at how rusty she had become. But she kept at it until "Silent Night" sounded at least acceptable to her ears. So lost became she in her task and the instrument that she did not hear the sound of a key in the lock or the door opening.

But the sound of it closing she _did _hear, causing her to end her playing on an off-key and turn around on the bench with a little jump. There stood Mycroft Holmes by the door, his briefcase in one hand and his brolly in the other. He wore a tailored woolen overcoat of charcoal gray that buttoned all the way up to his neck, and black leather gloves. His face appeared pleasantly detached, but his eyes seemed…nervous.

Snapping herself out of her shock, Molly stood up from the bench (nearly tripping over her own feet in the process) and said cleverly, "Oh, um, Mr. Holmes! Happy Christmas!"

"Same to you, Dr. Hooper," said Mycroft, after clearing his throat awkwardly.

An even more awkward silence followed after that, as Mycroft hung up his winter things.

"You can call me Molly, you know," Molly finally said, determined to make the both of them feel more at ease. "Dr. Hooper…well, outside of work I don't really like being called that, respectful though it is."

Mycroft blinked at her and then nodded his head. "Very well, Molly. I suppose you should call me Mycroft, then."

"Only if you don't mind."

"Usually, I do, but not with you."

"Oh, good then."

Mycroft wore his customary three-piece gray suit and a dark-green tie today. He walked towards the coffee table and smiled down at the container. "I am not surprised that you are the one who left all those treats out there for the members. Normally I pay no mind to the others, but it is impossible not to ignore the more cheerful atmosphere and the increased number of smiles thanks to the treats you provided."

Molly couldn't help the pleased smile from appearing on her face. "I wanted to be productive today, so I baked up a storm, digging up old family recipes and putting them to use."

Mycroft had taken the lid off the container and pulled out one of the Christmas cookies. It looked like a standard sugar cookie, shaped like a stocking and topped with pink icing. "May I?" Mycroft seemed to remember to ask.

Molly giggled. "I wouldn't have brought any in here if you couldn't have them, Mycroft."

In the firelight, she was sure that she imagined Mycroft's cheeks tingeing with a bit of pink. He took a small bite of the cookie, and in the next second his eyes had closed and he'd practically sighed in satisfaction. "My goodness, these are _excellent!_ What goes into them?"

Molly's pleased smile had widened at Mycroft's reaction to her baking. "Most standard ingredients for cookies, but with a special ingredient. Can you deduce it?"

His eyes sparkling with the idea of a challenge, Mycroft took a bigger bite of the cookie and chewed it slowly. Molly bit her lip in excitement, not knowing if he would get it or not. But after he swallowed, his eyes lit up. "Sour cream!"

Molly gave a few claps, still smiling. "Very good! A very small amount, but it makes all the difference. It took me years to get the recipe nailed. I only had my mother's hand-written recipe to follow, so…well, I went through a lot of trial-and-error, to say the least."

Mycroft noticed the sadness that had filled Molly's eyes before forcefully blinking it away. His mind recalled parts of the background check he'd ran on her years ago, when it became apparent that Sherlock would work with no other pathologist. _Mother died when she was five, after complications from the birth of her little brother. Father died when she was in medical school of pancreatic cancer. Brother currently deployed to Afghanistan as a lieutenant in his unit, with the job of translator. In short, no family to spend the holidays with this year._

Slowly, so as not to startle her, Mycroft moved towards her, making sure not to get too close. "How is your brother?" he asked, in a gentle voice he couldn't remember using before. "I believe he is stationed in Qandahar right now, yes?"

Molly looked surprised for a moment, but then nodded. "Of course you would know that…um, David's good. I was able to have a good long chat with him over Skype today while I baked. Wish he could have come home but, well, what can you do?" She cleared her throat and then leaned forward a bit, her tones hushed. "And, um, how's _your_ little…"

"_My_ little brother? Don't worry, Molly, we may speak freely in here. As far as I know, he is fine and safely undercover. I cannot go into details, but I'm sure that he does not give a hoot what day it is. As you can imagine, he does not really care for this holiday." _Neither do I, but this one is becoming…more tolerable._

Molly lowered her head, as if in embarrassment. "Yes, I know," she said, her voice harking to the past. He realized that she must be thinking of last year's Christmas, when he'd went with Sherlock to her morgue over some very unpleasant business indeed.

Determined to distract her from her current morose musings, Mycroft walked back to the coffee table and said genuinely, "Well, you've most certainly got the recipe right this year; they are…_sublime_."

Molly's sad face immediately changed into a bright and happy smile. "Well, they're all yours, along with the brownies and little fruitcakes in there."

Mycroft looked down at the container with both longing and deep conflict. Molly noticed.

"What is it?" she asked, stepping a bit closer to him.

Mycroft heaved a sigh and rubbed the back of his neck, looking more awkward or uncomfortable than Molly had ever seen him. "Nothing would please me more, but…" A sour look appeared on his face as he looked the container. "I'm sure that my darling brother has mentioned how I have…well, that I…sometimes feel the need to…diet."

He heard Molly take a soft step closer to him, and when he looked at her, the expression in her doe brown eyes was gentle and warm. No one had looked at him like that since he had been young. "He did say once or twice that you have a sweet tooth. He put it in much ruder terms, but…from where I stand you look no more wide around the waist than me."

Mycroft snorted in disbelief as he looked away from her, his cheeks burning. _Is she joking? She probably hasn't got an ounce of unseemly fat on her figure, despite those over-sized and hideous though oddly charming outfits she wears. She's a wisp of a thing, and these suits are tailor-designed to make me appear as slim as a man can be. If she saw me out of it, then she would certainly – wait, what am I thinking of? No one is seeing anybody naked! _

A small clearing of the throat brought him back to the present situation. "Well, I'll tell you what," Molly said in a chipper voice, determined to make everything all right again. "We'll just leave the container here. If it's sealed tight, then the goodies inside will keep. We'll both partake of them whenever we come here, so that we can share them and you don't have to feel guilty about overindulging." She picked up the container, still looking at him. "But, Mycroft, you shouldn't have to feel guilty about this. If there's ever a time where indulging in sweets is allowed, it's Christmas."

She looked and sounded so earnest, so honest, that Mycroft could only give a small nod in response before reaching into the container she held and taking out a brownie. She grinned, pulled out a Christmas cookie, and touched it to his brownie in a toast. "Cheers! I'll just put this on the desk, so we won't eat everything at once."

After doing that and sealing the container shut, Molly turned back around to look at Mycroft. He was holding his present from her in his hands. Now nervous butterflies filled her stomach. "Oh, um, yes, that's for you." She slowly walked back to him, expecting him to open it but instead he seemed to be examining it. At this, Molly couldn't help but snort. "Deducing again?"

He immediately stopped and looked at her. "Forgive me, Molly. It's an old habit I'd forgotten I had. This is how Sherlock and I always opened our gifts as children. And as brothers, we of course made a competition out of it." _And I won every year, _he thought, inwardly smirking. "Used to drive Mummy absolutely mental." He said this last part more to himself than to her, but her giggle at this made him smile.

"You're forgiven, but please stop deducing and just open it," she said, clasping her hands together. "Sorry, I don't mean to snap, it's…you're just a very difficult person to think of a gift for."

Her statement of annoyance and frustration was so adorable that Mycroft chuckled as he carefully pulled away the wrapping paper. What he saw was…well, his deduction had, for the first time, been wrong. In a box were several neatly-folded handkerchiefs. They were made of fine linen, like ones men used to always carry, smaller and made of less delicate stuff than women's. In the corners of each had been embroidered in red thread very neatly in an elegant font: _MH._

"My gran taught me how to handle a needle before she passed on," Molly explained nervously, beginning to ramble. "She used to have handkerchiefs, and she gave me some to make my own. I hadn't done it in a very long time, but it's actually quite lucky that we both have the same initials or you might only have gotten one. I hope you don't mind them, it's just you always wear suits and that gave me the idea, and this room reminds me of something out of an old novel, so…"

Her voice drifted as her eyes took in what Mycroft had done while she had been rambling: he had lifted out a handkerchief, folded it even more neatly, and tucked it into the front pocket of his blazer, the white corner peeping out elegantly. He was smiling at her. "Thank you, Molly, very much."

She let out a great sigh of relief, and nodded. "You're very welcome, Mycroft."

Now Mycroft seemed to take on a nervous air, though he tried to hide it, as he bent down to rifle through his elegant briefcase. When he straightened up, Mycroft had an elegantly wrapped parcel in his hand, which he held out to her. "For you."

Molly's eyes widened, taking it as if it were made of the finest glass. "Mycroft, you didn't have to –"

"One, it would be the height of rudeness to not give you a gift when you went to the trouble of giving me one," Mycroft interrupted. "And two, though I may not care much for this sort of thing, it _is _Christmas and you do."

Out of excuses, Molly unwrapped her gift as carefully as she held it. Now she held a book in her hand, old and bound with fine moleskin. The cover read: _The Complete Ghost Stories of M.R. James._

"Oh, wow, this is lovely," she said, smiling at Mycroft. "I've heard of him, but I haven't read anything by him. He must be good if you're giving it to me."

Mycroft's posture relaxed at her reaction, and he smiled almost shyly. "I've always admired his stories. He was a scholar and professor at Cambridge, and would read one of his stories aloud to his students every year at Christmas. They are meant to entertain as much as frighten, and I thought, being a pathologist, you are not as squeamish about these things."

"And you would be right," she said, still smiling. "Thank you so much, it's such a thoughtful gift." A spark came into her eyes. "But you know what would make it better?"

Mycroft, who honestly did not know the answer, shrugged.

Molly gave him back the book. "Read it aloud."

_That_ he had not expected. "Oh! Umm…really?"

The young woman flopped down onto the comfortable couch. "Why not? We have the perfect atmosphere: Christmas evening, December wind and snow wailing outside, an old-fashioned study, a roaring fire. Besides, stories like this are much better when read aloud." A cloud of doubt passed over her eyes. "Unless you don't want to, of course. I just thought –"

"What an excellent proposition," Mycroft again interrupted her ramblings, smiling in excitement as he seated himself on the lounge chair beside the sofa, both before the roaring fire. "And I would be delighted."

With that, they exchanged a smile before Mycroft opened the book to the first story and Molly held one of the sofa pillows to her chest in anticipation.

And thus a friendship was born on that Christmas evening.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **_So there's your Christmas present: a beginning-to-look-a-lot-like-Mollcroft Christmas! And FYI, those cookies described in the chapter do exist: I'm eating and enjoying one right now. But I'm afraid the recipe is a family secret. Happy Holidays to all!_


	4. Chapter 4

**Four**

The first day of 2012 in London turned out to be unexpectedly sunny, even with the crisp winter air whipping about. Molly immediately was glad that she had braided her hair today; she only liked her hair being blown wildly about by the wind when it was warm. She'd been working the overnight shift when the years had changed, so she'd missed all of the excitement, parties, and airings of "When Harry Met Sally." That didn't really bother Molly, though, especially since she didn't have anybody to kiss at midnight. And anyway, she had the DVD all ready to go tonight.

She was now making her way from the tube station to Baker Street, after having slept through the morning after her shift. Now she felt refreshed but nowhere near ready for the task she had set herself today. She certainly felt like she'd put it off long enough, and it was a new year now, the perfect day for fresh starts. Yes, this was a bit overdue, but Molly would try her best to keep the promise she'd made to Sherlock.

But when she turned onto Baker Street and Sherlock's block, the first sight to greet her eyes was a small moving van, parked right in front of Speedy's. Which could only mean…_Oh, John,_ thought Molly, her heart sinking.

Picking up her pace, Molly made her way towards the building and the van. As she came to a stop, John came out of the front door, a box in his hands and a grim determination on his face. Her worst suspicions confirmed, Molly stopped when she reached the van. She waited until John had loaded his box before speaking. "Hello, John."

He turned in the direction of her voice, and when his eyes fell on her, John grimaced and turned away for a moment. When he looked at her again, Molly could see that it was taking a great deal of strength to hold that indifferent façade. "Hello, Molly. Not sure who put you up to this, to try and persuade me to change my mind, or if you just think you're speaking on his behalf."

"John, whatever you're thinking, that's not it!" said Molly, surprised not only at his words, but how cold he was being towards her. "I didn't know you were moving, I swear. I only wanted to see how you were doing."

John let out a humorless laugh and looked at the sky. "Ah, of course. Everybody always needs to be checking up on me. What are you all so afraid of? That I'll follow in his footsteps and pretend to fly? Well, let me tell you: I'll be a hell of a lot better once I'm away from here."

"No, John, I would never think that! I only –"

"Just _shut up!_" he yelled.

Molly flinched so badly that she jumped, and her vision blurred with tears. Forcefully, she blinked them back. In her refreshed visibility, Molly saw that John was grimacing and rubbing his forehead, trying to calm himself down. When he looked at her again, there _was _a forced calm on his face, but the anguish in his eyes was clear as day.

"Look, Molly, the only reason I know you at all is because of him. And right now, all I want is to put as much distance as I can between myself and anything that really reminds me of him. So just…I know you mean well, but please…_leave me alone_."

With that, John practically stormed back inside of the building. Tears refilled Molly's eyes, but she wiped them away before they could fall down her cold cheeks. She turned to walk away when her eyes caught the window of Mrs. Hudson's flat; she could see some movement behind the thin curtains.

Resolving to be strong and do what she could, Molly quickly entered the building – wary of running into John in such a state again – and knocked on the door of 221A. Thankfully, the door was opened quickly by Mrs. Hudson. The poor woman had obviously been crying, with red eyes and shaking hands, but she tried to put on a cheerful disposition when she saw Molly.

"Oh, hello dear! Come in, come in!" She ushered Molly inside and immediately made a beeline for what Molly saw was her kitchen. "I was just about to put the kettle on. Wasn't expecting visitors, though, so I'm not sure if I have any biscuits or not."

Molly shut the door behind her and followed Mrs. Hudson. Upon entering the kitchen, she found the older woman rifling through her cabinets almost frantically. "Oh, dear…" she was muttering to herself. "I was sure I had a tin up here…or maybe it was down here…"

Her heart twisting with grief and guilt, Molly reached out and touched Mrs. Hudson's shoulder. The landlady's frantic actions stopped, and she turned to Molly. All Molly could think to say was, in a voice thick with emotion, "I'm really going to miss them, too"

Mrs. Hudson's face crumbled and covered her face with her hands. "I'm just being so silly!"

Without a hesitation, Molly wrapped her arms around the good woman. "You are anything but, Mrs. Hudson."

As Mrs. Hudson let herself grieve on Molly's shoulder, Molly let herself shed a few tears of her own as she prayed this good woman, as well as Greg and John, would forgive her when this nightmare was over.

* * *

><p>That late afternoon, Molly went to the Diogenes Club, wanting nothing more than to escape from a world she felt she was lying to for a while. At least in that room, shared only with Mycroft, she could be completely honest. When she arrived a little after five o'clock, Henry told her that Mycroft was in their private room, which pleased her. They hadn't seen each other since Christmas, and she wanted to talk to him anyway.<p>

When she entered the sanctuary – it seemed the most appropriate term for this room to her – she saw that Mycroft was at his desk, his head bent over some paperwork. Not wanting to interrupt him, Molly removed her outerwear and settled herself on one end of the sofa. She watched the flames of the lit fire in the grate, letting her mind wander.

Molly didn't realize just how far it had wandered until she felt a gentle tap on her shoulder. She turned her head abruptly, and saw that Mycroft was sitting on the other side of the sofa with a curious and amused expression on his usually impassive face.

Chuckling in embarrassment, Molly lowered her head and looked at her hands wringing in her lap. "Sorry. I didn't want to disturb you in the middle of something, and I sort of…spaced out."

"That's quite all right," he replied easily. "It wasn't anything important, just mundane. There is something you want to talk about?"

Molly nodded and looked back up at him. "I know you have some kind of security detail on Sherlock's three friends. I'd greatly appreciate it if you could give me updates on John every now and again. I don't want to spy on him, but…it's the only way I can know how he's doing."

Mycroft nodded solemnly. "Do you need the same for Mrs. Hudson and Inspector Lestrade?"

Molly shook her head. "I see Greg on a pretty regular basis when our work overlaps, and today I promised Mrs. Hudson that I would visit her at least once a week. But John…well, I promised Sherlock I would look after them all while he was gone, and I want to keep my word in whatever way I can. If it's too much to ask, I understand."

"Molly, of course it is not too much trouble," said Mycroft firmly. "How often would you like an update?"

"Um…well, not every day or anything like that. I don't want to cross the line from keeping an eye to spying."

Mycroft nodded. "How about an update on the first of every month? And I will also let you know if anything…well, anything to worry about were to happen."

Molly nodded and managed a small smile. "Thank you, that would be fine." She turned her gaze back to the fire in the grate, and let out a sigh. "I'm sure he won't do anything…foolish…he's a soldier, after all, like my brother. Keep calm, carry on, and all that."

"I agree," said Mycroft. "But I am sorry that he foolishly lashed out at you."

Molly shook her head. "No, no, I don't blame him at all. He's grieving, and there one always must give at least the benefit of the doubt. I went through that when I lost my father, but to watch your best friend jump...Besides, I imagine I'll get much worse from John when Sherlock comes back."

"Dr. Watson is a good and reasonable man, Molly, he will understand in time."

Molly sighed. "God, I hope so..."

Silence followed, but it wasn't uncomfortable; each could sense the other was lost in their own thoughts and not to be disturbed. Surprisingly, it was Mycroft who eventually broke the silence.

"When I first met Dr. Watson, I came to the conclusion that he would be the making of my brother or make him worse than ever…I am very pleased to say that he proved to be the former."

Molly nodded, a small smile on her face. "Absolutely. He really changed Sherlock for the better. Made him more…well, I've always known he was as human as anybody, but John certainly helped him not hide it so much anymore. I mean, I know that Sherlock would _never _have apologized to me at that Christmas party if John hadn't entered his life."

"I agree," said Mycroft, turning his head to look at her. When he saw the tinge of sadness in her small smile, he understood it with his own twinge of sadness. He couldn't quite help the next words he spoke, but at least they came out gently. "You wish it could have been you."

Molly immediately stiffened her posture in reaction, but soon sagged as she ran a hand through her loose hair. She kept her steady gaze on the fire. "When you have a crush on someone, you always hope to bring out the best in them, let alone wish they returned your feelings. On both of those fronts, I failed…" She sighed softly. "I'm not surprised, though. I'm just one ordinary person in a sea of billions. Not enough to inspire anybody to go out of the way or be out-of-the-ordinary."

The tone of her voice was resigned rather than sad, but this only served to anger Mycroft. He kept it in check, however, his gaze turning back to the fire for a few silent moments as he carefully decided his next words.

"Molly…you were very key in successfully performing the biggest death hoax this country has ever seen. You also are the first person since Mummy to pull a genuine apology from my little brother, no matter what influence John Watson has been to him. Furthermore…you are the first person in many years that I may call a friend…At least, I hope that I may."

Molly turned her head to look at Mycroft, surprise and compassion written in every cell of her face. He did not look at her, but kept his gaze directly on the fire. Though the expression on his face was its usual neutral cool, Molly's eye caught a tiny movement from his right hand. His thumb and forefinger were ever-so-slightly rubbing together at a rapid pace, giving away the vulnerability he was feeling at what he'd just said.

And just like that, one of Mycroft's many layers was peeled away before Molly's eyes. Through her few one-on-one interactions with him – and through the few snide comments that Sherlock had made – Molly had made several deductions about the elder Holmes brother: extremely intelligent, very self-controlled, and quite alone in the universe. All three of these qualities were qualities he shared with his brother, but Mycroft had all three in greater quantities. But what set him apart from his brother completely was something else, something good and pure that Molly couldn't quite name yet, but she would try as time went on.

So, keeping her gaze fixed on his face, Molly reached out a hand and gently touched his own. His fingers stilled and he turned his head to look at her in complete shock. She smiled at him warmly. "Of course you may, Mycroft, and I am honored to call you mine."

Not wanting to make him uncomfortable, Molly withdrew her hand and folded hers in her lap. She was glad that she had not given away her surprise when she'd touched his hand; it was much warmer than one would think the hand of "The Iceman" would be.

"Well," she said, standing up and walking to the door, "I feel much better, now that I've talked to you and now that we're friends. I'll leave you to your work and –"

"Molly, either now or in the future, you never need stay out of this room if I am in here," said Mycroft, still looking at her as he stood up. "You needn't rush away now, unless you already have plans, of course."

Molly chuckled as she put on her coat, scarf and hat. "Only eating Indian take-away, drinking red wine, and watching _When Harry Met Sally._ As a friend, I'd invite you to join me, but I imagine a classic romantic comedy is far from your idea of entertainment."

Mycroft's face took on a truly comical expression, which made Molly laugh whole-heartedly.

"That's what I thought. See you later, Mycroft!"

Mycroft stood standing there like that for a good sixty seconds after she had left, flexing the hand that she had touched. She had misinterpreted the comical look on his face: it wasn't disgusted, it was _conflicted_. But Mycroft soon snapped out of it with a huff and returned to his desk. _It's for the best, _he thought firmly as he settled himself back behind the desk. _I do need to finish this tedious paperwork, and she's right that I wouldn't possibly enjoy such a film with her…would I?_

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **_I'm so sorry this took a while! Work, being sick, and being the lead in a community theatre production really guzzled up all of my time. But now that the show is over, I'm once again more free to write. Please read and review!_


	5. Chapter 5

**Five**

While the start of the new year is a very popular time to create new resolutions for oneself, neither Molly Hooper nor Mycroft Holmes created any such resolutions for that reason. However, in the following months, new resolutions were made and kept by the both of them that had nothing to do with the new year. However, though neither would know it until much later, they did have everything to do with the friendship that had been born between them.

* * *

><p>"Where does it come from?" Molly asked absently as she hung up her coat, one mid-January afternoon.<p>

"Could you be more specific?" asked Mycroft, getting up from behind his desk.

Molly gave him a tiny smile. "You have a big brain. Can't you figure it out?"

Mycroft laughed, something that he had been doing more often since becoming friends with Molly. He liked it when she teased him, for no one else ever did. In his government position, he had to be intimidating; here, in the Diogenes Club with Molly, he did not have to be. "As a licensed doctor, surely you know that the size of the brain has nothing to do with intelligence level," he teased right back. "And I'm sure I could deduce what you mean if I really wanted to, but I'm feeling a bit lazy right now, so please clarify for me?"

Molly laughed in return, plopping herself down on her side of the sofa. "The Diogenes Club. A bit of an odd name. Where does it come from?"

"Ah, I wondered when you would ask about that," said Mycroft, sitting down on his own side of the sofa after taking down his own copy of M.R. James' ghost stories. "The name comes from the Greek philosopher, who lived several centuries before Christ. He exhibited great contempt for riches and honors, as well as those who valued them above all things; he also was a great promoter of the self-sufficiency of the individual over the community." He chuckled. "My favorite anecdote about him is that, supposedly, he used to walk the streets of Athens during the day with a lit lamp. He claimed that he was looking for a truly honest man."

Both of them laughed heartily. "How appropriate," said Molly after her giggles had calmed. "Very appropriate for such an ironic place. After all, the definition of a club is a place where people of common interests can share and connect with each other. Here, everyone shares a common purpose, and that is to make an island unto him-or-herself."

"Quite right," said Mycroft, nodding. "We hold no contempt for each other. On the contrary, we hold a great respect, even if none of us have been introduced."

"Because you come here with a shared purpose, and are honest about it."

Mycroft smiled at her, reminded again of just how bright and intuitive he was. He lifted the book he was holding. "Shall you read today, or shall I?"

Molly took the book from him. "You've read more than me so far, so let's even it out."

Mycroft settled back into the sofa, pleased by her choice. He enjoyed hearing her read aloud because she had never read these stories before, and enjoyed hearing her surprise and excitement rise and fall in her voice.

* * *

><p>"Alright, enough about me, Molls. Tell me what's going on with you."<p>

Molly groaned, now that the brother and sister had arrived at her least favorite part of the conversation. Whenever she talked to David, whether over the phone or Skype, she always started the conversation by asking every question she could about how him: how was he doing physically, were they in a generally safe location, any stories from camp, etc. David would always answer each question honestly and thoroughly, but he would never end their conversation until he had gotten the answers to his own questions about his big sister.

In reply, Molly sighed and leaned back against her headboard. Her brother's face on her laptop's screen showed he was willing to wait all day for an honest answer. "Honestly…it's alright. Getting better each day, you know? Not a day goes by when I don't expect him to walk into the lab and demand a foot, but…I know to expect it now."

It broke Molly's heart that she had to lie to her little brother about Sherlock's death, but it helped that what she had just told him and had been telling him was the truth. Just because she knew that Sherlock was alive didn't mean that she didn't miss him (even his less than desirable qualities, which she had become all too familiar with in the years she had known him).

She watched David nod in understanding. Though Molly had never given him the gory details of when Sherlock did anything "a bit not good" with her, he knew how much Molly cared for him and thankfully never pushed her about it. He didn't do that now, either, and changed the subject.

"That's good, Molls. Just let time go by, and it will do most of the work for you. What about work? You aren't overstraining yourself, are you?"

Molly shook her head. "No, don't worry, David. I won't deny that work helps pass the time and keep my mind occupied, but I'm not taking overtime unless I have to now."

"Good, that's good. What are you doing in your free time, then?"

"Well," said Molly, giving a small smile now. "I've taken up the piano again."

David beamed. "Really? Good for you, Molls! That's fantastic! I remember how good you were and how much you loved it when we were kids!"

"I wouldn't say I was _that _good but I did love it and do now, too. It wasn't as hard as I thought to get back on the bench, so to speak. Mycroft's been a great help in giving me the right music to start again with, and letting me practice on his beautiful cabinet piano."

"Mycroft? Who's Mycroft?"

"Oh!" Molly exclaimed guiltily. "Have I not mentioned him before? Well, we've only been friends for a month or so. Mycroft is, I mean _was_, Sherlock's older brother. I'd known of him and briefly met him a few times before, but it wasn't until recently that we started getting to know each other."

"That's great," said David, smiling compassionately at his sister. "He must miss his brother even more than you do, so I'm glad that you're connecting with someone in the same boat as you."

_You don't know the half of it, _thought Molly.

"So, he's a good player?" asked David.

"Mm-hm. Mycroft is as proficient at the piano as Sherlock is…_was_…with the violin. He offered to help me reconnect with the instrument, and in return, I'm helping him develop an exercise routine."

David chuckled. "You two going swimming together, then?"

"No!" said Molly, blushing. "He wants to try jogging."

"Oh, yeah, that was your exercise in Uni before you switched to swimming laps," said David, nodding. "Well, good luck to the both of you in your resolutions."

There came an official-sounding call from off-camera on David's end, and he immediately sat up straighter. "Sorry, Molls, I've gotta go," he said apologetically. "Duty calls."

"Okay, D," she said, wishing, like always when these conversations ended, that she could hug him good-bye. "Be careful and stay safe."

"Yes, big sister," he said, smiling and blowing her a kiss.

Molly blew one right back just before his image on her screen disappeared.

* * *

><p>The final notes of "Fur Elise" were played gently and softly, Molly's fingers holding the keys down with her fingers and the brass pedal down with her foot so they gently faded into the sound of the crackling fire. She released a breath and turned to Mycroft, who stood at the piano beside her.<p>

He was smiling and gave his head a nod. "Very good, Molly. You're progressing beautifully. I hope your own confidence has grown."

Molly shrugged. "I think so, but I won't be asking to play at the Albert Hall any time soon. Not that I ever really would – I'd probably have to wear heels."

Mycroft chuckled as he walked towards the easy chair. Molly watched him over her shoulder, and her gaze sharpened when she saw how stiff his stride was, and the way he winced a bit as he sat down.

"Mycroft, how many times have you ran this week?"

Looking at her, Mycroft saw that Molly would be able to see through any lie he told the way she could see through his little brother. This didn't surprise him, and secretly, it pleased him. "Five times."

"It's Friday!" said Molly, giving him an exasperated look. "You're still a beginner with this, Mycroft. You know perfectly well that you need to take it slow and run every other day, not every day."

Mycroft rolled his eyes but nodded. "I know," he said, looking into the fire.

Molly sighed, turning on the bench to face him. A gently teasing smile was on her face. "What do I need to say? That you are the definition of a 'tall and slim' build? That you are in no danger of growing as wide as your favorite kind of cream puff? That my new nickname for you is 'daddy long legs'?"

Mycroft cracked by giving her an amused grimace that made Molly giggle. "You would compare me to a spider, Dr. Hooper? I don't know whether to be offended or flattered!" Their expressions sobered in the following quiet moment, until Mycroft said seriously, "Every other day."

Molly nodded. "And in a few week, it will be spring and the jogging paths will not be icy. That will give you some fresh air and really help you along." She turned back to the cabinet piano, running a finger over the carvings above the keys. "Such a beautiful instrument," she said. "Where did you buy it?"

"I didn't buy it," replied Mycroft softly. "It was a gift from its maker."

"Wow!" said Molly, still entranced by the wave and petal patterns in the rosewood of the instrument. "You must have really helped them out."

Mycroft gave a short laugh. "If anything, I only made my father's life more challenging growing up."

Molly turned around on the bench very quickly indeed with wide eyes. "Your…your father made this?"

He was smiling indulgently at her shock. "Surprised that my father is a carpenter and not the secret dictator of the free world?"

Molly looked down at her lap in embarrassment, running a hand through her hair. "I'm sorry, I…I honestly never knew what to think or believe about where you and Sherlock came from, so I never let myself jump to any conclusions…though I suppose my reaction shows that I did make some, unconsciously."

"It's quite alright, Molly," said Mycroft, and he meant it. "And I'm glad that you appreciate my father's work, for he is truly an artist in his field."

Suddenly, Mycroft's phone vibrated in his pocket, and he pulled it out to look at the message he had received. "My PA is informing me that my presence is needed by the prime minister."

"Nothing serious, I hope?" asked Molly, a small worry line forming between her eyes.

Mycroft could not help the warm feeling in his chest when he witness this. He knew that she was not asking to be nosy, but because she did not want him to work well into the night. "I doubt it, the message does not sound urgent." He stood up and gathered his things, giving her a smile. "See you Sunday, Molly."

"Have fun, Mycroft," said Molly.

After he left, Molly briefly wondered how he had known she would next come back to the Diogenes Club on Sunday. Then she remembered that she had the second shift tomorrow and the day off Sunday.

Molly laughed, glad that _this _Holmes brother did not use knowing her work schedule to cater to his needs but rather work their time together around it.

* * *

><p>One afternoon in the last week of March, Molly sat in her office, nervously tapping her pen against the paperwork she was trying to complete while she waited for someone who intimidated more than either Holmes brother.<p>

And she arrived right on time, thankfully with her blackberry in her hand at her side rather than in front of her face. "Hello, Dr. Hooper," said Anthea, the barest hint of a smile on her face. "What can I do for you?"

Molly swallowed, forcing herself not to be intimidated. She always felt like this around beautiful women who were perfectly put together – perfect clothing, perfect make-up, perfect hair – and made her feel self-conscious in the worst way. But she resolutely ignored it, remembering that she had asked to meet Anthea. Mycroft had given her Anthea's number not long after they became friends, stating that she would help Molly with anything she needed if he was not available.

Well, Molly had a reason for reaching out to this mysterious PA now for a reason that Mycroft probably never expected.

"Thank you for coming," said Molly. "I was wondering if you could…help me with something. You see, I know that Mycroft's birthday is next week."

Anthea raised an eyebrow, and let her smile show a little bit more. "How do you know that? If it were up to him, his own parents would forget about it."

"Well," said Molly, twisting her fingers on her lap. "Last year, I remember Sherlock telling John in the lab that he was sending a large chocolate cake from a client who was a baker to his brother's home as a happy birthday. He thought it was quite funny, and now I understand why."

The two women shared an exasperated eye-roll.

"And you would rather give him a more thoughtful gift?" asked Anthea, already knowing the answer.

Molly nodded. "I know how private of a man he is, and of course I don't want to do anything that will make him uncomfortable. But I don't want to pass up an opportunity that I can express my immense gratitude for all he is doing for me. Just the fact that he is willing to be my friend is reason enough for me to give him the highest praise I can give. But…I wouldn't know where to begin with a man who appears to be able to get anything he wants, so I need help from someone who knows what he needs."

Anthea's smile had grown, small but genuine. "I know that he returns those sentiments, Dr. Hooper."

"Call me Molly, please. And that is nice to hear."

Anthea nodded and said elusively, "Exercise is not the only way that Mr. Holmes is trying to improve his health and reduce his weight with."

A few seconds, and then a relieved and happy look crossed Molly's face. "Oh, thank you, Anthea! Um, is it okay if I call you that?"

Anthea actually laughed. "Of course. Anything else I can help you with?"

Molly bit her lip nervously. "If you wouldn't mind being a little sneaky…"

Anthea's smile became a smirk. "Molly, I am the executive personal assistant to the man behind the British Government. Sneaking is my specialty."

* * *

><p>On the morning of the third of April, Mycroft entered his residence feeling exhausted, sweaty, but quite satisfied with his performance. London was a marvelous city for walking, running, and people who minded their own business while out in public. No one ever looked twice at him when he ran, and for that he was extremely grateful. He felt self-conscious enough in his running gear.<p>

He walked into his kitchen to drink some water before taking a shower. As he filled a glass, Mycroft noticed a pile of hand-written papers on his countertop. The only other person who had access to his flat was Anthea, so he wondered why she would leave them here rather than text him any new information.

But when he picked them up and saw what they were, Mycroft realized that Anthea had only been the messenger of an angel. He noticed a sealed white envelope with his name on it in the same writing as the papers, and immediately picked it up. Opening it carefully, Mycroft pulled out the note inside, and his smile grew with each word he read:

_Dear Mycroft,_

_Please don't ask how I know it's your birthday (believe me, you won't like the story), but I just had to do something. Birthdays are supposed to be acknowledged as days of rejoicing that a person is alive in the world, and after everything you've done for me in the last five months, there is no way I could let that opportunity pass by._

_These recipes are all ones that I've learned either from my granny or from cookbooks and magazines. All are very simple to make, whether it can be made in a single pot or has only three ingredients. I had to learn these out of necessity, since I had to be the woman of the house for my father and brother, but hopefully you can learn these out of pleasure, knowing that each are healthy, fulfilling, and delicious._

_I know you don't want a fuss, which is why I listed Anthea's help (so please don't be mad at her, I asked so nicely she couldn't refuse). So, I hope you at least have a good day._

_Yours, Molly_

Filled with a warm gratitude that was so powerful and unfamiliar it was almost frightening, Mycroft immediately rushed to the shower after sending a quick text so it couldn't be taken back:

_I would hug you if it wouldn't make you uncomfortable. Thank you, my friend._

* * *

><p>Molly couldn't see Mycroft until the next day because of work, but she was ready and waiting in their private room when he arrived at a quarter to five. Once he had entered the room, Molly approached him with a big smile on her face. She wrapped her arms around his torso and rested her cheek against his chest. "You're welcome, my friend," she whispered sweetly.<p>

To his relief and her delight, Mycroft returned the embrace without hesitation or stiffness, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Because, to the both of them, that's exactly how it felt.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **_Aww, aren't they adorable? It's a filler chapter, but at least things are progressing. You're going to have to be a bit patient though; I've got two years together, and this romance cannot be rushed. Don't worry, the story won't go over twenty chapters, and I appreciate your feedback. Go Mollcroft!_


	6. Chapter 6

**Six**

One sunny Sunday afternoon in June, Molly was having her weekly get-together with Mrs. Hudson. Sometimes they would go out to a café or restaurant for lunch, and sometimes they would just stay in Baker Street for tea. This day had them both in the latter, chatting merrily away about the trailer that had just been released for the new season of _Downton Abbey, _their favorite program.

"All I know is that if they don't let that nice valet man of jail, I'll not be happy!" said Mrs. Hudson decisively. "With my colorful history, I learned who belongs in prison and who doesn't. Mr. Bates is not one of them!"

"I agree," said Molly, smiling. "And not just for him. Anna is my favorite, so I'm always going to want her to be happy."

"Ah, yes," said Mrs. Hudson, returning Molly's smile. "You're a lot like her, you know."

"Thank you!" said Molly, beaming at the lovely compliment.

"So, which am I like, then?" asked Mrs. Hudson eagerly.

Molly didn't have to think twice. "Mrs. Patmore. I'd say Mrs. Hughes, but as you used to always tell your most challenging tenant: _I'm not your housekeeper!_"

And Mrs. Hudson _laughed_. Molly reached across the table to hold her hand as she laughed with her. Both of them were so relieved that they could laugh about Sherlock now.

It's a bridge that everyone who goes through the grief of losing a loved one must come to. As long as they remember that the person they lost would _want _them to laugh, that laughing would not mean that they loved them any less, the bridge can be crossed. Mrs. Hudson had crossed it, and so had Lestrade. The last few times that he had come to the morgue to see a body, he would crack a joke to Molly about what Sherlock would do if he were here. John, from what she could glean from her monthly updates from Anthea, was just getting by and soldiering on. All of his focus and energy was pouring into his new practice, and thankfully it was paying off. But, from what Anthea said, just a smile was a rarity for John. All Molly could do was pray that time would work its medicine on the good doctor.

As their joint laughter calmed, Molly's mobile vibrated in her pocket with a text alert. She pulled it out and looked at the short message, which sent a cold chill straight through her heart:

_A car will pick you up in precisely one minute and bring you to the airport. Anthea will escort you to the jet. Please don't ask questions until we are off the ground. MH_

"Um," said Molly, hastily putting her phone away and getting up from the table. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I'm afraid I need to leave now."

"Duty calls, eh?" said Mrs. Hudson, getting up as well. "Of course, you go on, put the resting at peace."

It had become Mrs. Hudson's favorite expression when seeing Molly off if she had to cut their outing short. This time, it made Molly's insides twist in fear, and she hugged Mrs. Hudson a bit tighter than she usually did.

"See you next week, Mrs. H," she said. "We'll go somewhere nice next time."

"I look forward to it, dear!" Mrs. Hudson called as Molly left with a wave.

Within seconds of Molly leaving the building, an elegant black car pulled up to the curb. Without hesitation, Molly let herself in and slid into the backseat; she'd barely closed the door when the car had started down the road again. As she had guessed, Anthea was seated beside her, and glued to her blackberry as usual. Molly remembered Mycroft's request and pressed her lips together for the entire ride, though she wanted more than anything to know what was going on. She knew, in her gut, it couldn't be good.

The car arrived at Heathrow in record time – at least, in Molly's mind, it did – and Anthea indicated that they should get out. Molly found that she had to jog a bit to keep up with the PA, who somehow managed to be elegant and put-together even at this rapid pace. They managed to bypass most of the security procedures by Anthea simply flashing some kind of badge to the officers (Molly wisely decided not to ask).

After what felt like running through the entire building, Anthea and Molly finally arrived at a small and isolated departure gate. "He's waiting for you," said Anthea simply, but then she squeezed her arm with a soft look before disappearing into the crowds of Heathrow. Molly, knowing that she couldn't do anything else, took a deep breath and went through the gate.

Though she had no ticket or passport with her, she managed to get onto the plane with no trouble. Entering the vehicle, she saw that it was a small jet, with a pristine interior and luxurious seats. Mycroft was the only passenger, sitting in the last row by a window. His face was tense and grim, reading something on his mobile. However, he seemed to sense her presence. Looking up at her, he beckoned for her to join him and also for her to stay silent. Remembering his text, Molly nodded and obeyed.

It took all of her willpower to honor Mycroft's request to stay silent until the plane had cleared the runway, but she only just managed to. As soon as she could, she turned to Mycroft and breathed, "What's happened to him? How badly is he hurt?"

Whatever surprise Mycroft felt at the fact that she had figured out the basic situation, he hid it well and answered immediately. "I honestly do not know, but it must be bad. He sent me the text that should only be sent when he needs immediate and critical help."

Molly heaved a deep, shaking sigh, forcing herself to stay calm. "Where exactly are we going? Or is it better that I don't know?"

"All I will say is that we are going to Berlin, but we will most definitely _not _be doing any sight-seeing."

Molly gave a nervous chuckle before she suddenly gasped. "Oh! I didn't bring a medical bag or anything! It all happened so quickly, and I'm not that kind of doctor, anyway –"

Mycroft hushed her with a gentle hand on her arm. "Do not worry, Molly. You will have everything you need."

His voice was so reassuring and gentle that Molly immediately breathed a little easier, squeezing his hand before he withdrew it.

For a while, the plane ride went on in very tense silence between the two. Molly tried to absorb herself in sudokus on her own mobile. It was the only thing that provided her mind with just a touch of distraction from this terrible situation. As foolish as it was, this was the first time that Molly really was faced with the possibility that Sherlock might not come back and go from figuratively dead to really and most sincerely dead. It's not that she believed him to be an invincible god or some divine creature. She just knew that, when Sherlock put his mind to something with the goal to succeed, there was precious little that could be a match against his will-power.

But, as Molly knew better than most, Sherlock was as human as anybody else, though he tried so hard not to be. That meant that he could be just as vulnerable, being only one body against an entire criminal network. Molly knew that now she had no choice but to face the ever-growing possibility that she and Mycroft would join John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson in true mourning.

The pathologist turned her head to look at her friend. His face was completely blank, though his jaw was clenched. Every few seconds, he would check his mobile discreetly and look back out the window, but there was no fooling Molly. He was just as, if not more, scared than her.

Wanting to tell him that she was here and would do everything she could, but not wanting to overdue it, Molly laid the forearm of her free hand on the armrest between them, palm up, and returned her attention to her sudoku.

And when she felt her hand become surrounded by warmth, she gripped it back for the rest of the plane flight.

* * *

><p>Within twenty minutes of landing, Molly and Mycroft had come to the location where Sherlock was hidden. She'd asked him, as the plane landed, how they were going to find him. It turned out that the burn phone Sherlock carried had GPS which could only be accessed by Mycroft personally. The phone itself was an old model that no one would ever think was able to have GPS, but, just as with Molly and the Holmes brothers, appearances were deceptive.<p>

Thankfully, his location was not far from the airport, and the two of them were able to get there on foot. They walked arm in arm so as not to be separated, blending in with the bustling crowds on the city streets. Mycroft's eyes were glued to the screen of his mobile; Molly kept up with him and tried not to look around too much.

The building they finally stopped at was part of what looked like a residential block, not standing out at all from the others beside it. Mycroft mimed putting a key in the lock before letting them both in. Once inside, Molly barely saw that the home looked like it hadn't been lived in in years before Mycroft dragged her down to the basement.

Once they had come down the stairs, the sight they saw made them gasp in reaction of how fearfully cold her hearts had turned. Sherlock was lying on a dirty mattress, out cold, pale as death and his leg a bloody mess.

"Oh, God," Molly murmured as she rushed to him, gripping the straps of the bag full of medical supplies Mycroft had provided for her.

But Mycroft reached him first, kneeling beside his head on the mattress. Tenderly, he lifted his brother's head and rested it on his lap. To both of their relief, Sherlock gave a small groan. "Lockie?" Mycroft breathed in a voice that Molly, before the Fall, would not believe he was capable of. "I'm here with Dr. Hooper. Can you hear me?"

After putting on some gloves, Molly took a closer look at the injured area. "Thank goodness he had the presence of mind to make a tourniquet out of his belt before he passed out, or he might have bled to death."

Mycroft's eyes met hers, and she'd never seen eyes filled with more fear. "Tell me what to do," he said, without any ounce of authority.

Molly took no time to wonder over the fact that the British Government himself was now working for her as she quickly went into doctor-mode. "He's lost a lot of blood, and needs fluids. Thankfully, I've got a few banana bags, but he'll need more than that. Go upstairs and get as much water as you can bring down here. Then, try to get him conscious again. I know if anyone can do it, his big brother can."

* * *

><p>Molly and Mycroft did not sleep a wink that night. All of their energy and efforts were spent in making sure Sherlock did not become officially dead. Thankfully, the damage could have been a lot worse.<p>

The wound in his thigh turned out to be a stab wound from a pocket knife, but it had come very close to contact with the femoral artery. Thankfully it hadn't, or Sherlock would have died long before he could have called for help. Cleaning, stitching and bandaging the wound hadn't been a problem; the night provided harder tasks. Sherlock was weak, having been in a physical fight when he'd received the wound, so he had other bruises and cuts. He even ran a small fever at one point, but that was just the shock and thankfully not an infection. Mycroft only left his side to get water, holding his brother's head in his lap as he kept Sherlock from unconsciousness.

Now, in the early morning, all three were exhausted. Sherlock, having a good grasp on consciousness now, could now sit up with his back against a wall as he told Mycroft what had happened to him. Molly purposefully tried not to listen as she changed his dressings, knowing that both brothers did not want her to know any particulars of Sherlock's mission. If she wasn't required in the room, she would have left, but as it was, she tuned them out as best she could. Judging from the fact that Mycroft was pacing restlessly back and forth, and Sherlock was clenching and unclenching his fists, and the situation that Sherlock had landed himself in…of course it wasn't a pleasant chat.

"_DO YOU REALIZE WHAT YOU HAVE DONE?!_"

This made Molly jump, understandably, and turn to Mycroft. He'd stopped pacing, his face flushed from shouting. He continued in a more normal tone, but the rage in his voice hadn't dissipated at all.

"What were you thinking? No, clearly you _weren't _thinking rushing in like that. I don't care how perfect the opportunity seemed at the time; you were _stupid _not to realize that you would be vastly outnumbered."

Sherlock's fists and jaw clenched very tightly. In a quiet voice, he said, "I made a mistake."

"_A mistake? _You would have been home for Christmas if not for that _mistake. _It has not only lengthened this mission by at least another year, but one that very nearly put you _in a pine box_!"

Sherlock's fists pounded on the mattress as he yelled, "_Why the fuck do you care_? If it were up to you, I'd have died long ago!"

"_Sherlock_!" Molly involuntarily shrieked. She had wanted to leave this between the two of them, but hearing Sherlock say something so terrible – more terrible than anything he'd ever said to her or in front of her – floored her. It also made her furious, having gotten to know Mycroft and seeing how frightened he'd been coming here, that Sherlock could ever accuse Mycroft of something so horrible.

Thankfully, Sherlock seemed to realize he'd said the worst thing he could have said right after it had come out of his mouth. His already pale face became even whiter, and though he tried to stay defiant, the fear that bloomed on his face bloomed like a funeral lily.

Slowly, fearfully, Molly turned her head to look at Mycroft. He was standing very still, his posture stiff and his head lowered. He took one, then two, very slow steps to the right…and then snapped. Quick as lightning, he swung his fist around and shattered a nearly empty water jug. Molly covered her mouth as she jumped, involuntarily letting out a squeak. Even Sherlock jumped a little.

Clenching his now bleeding fist, Mycroft walked to the basement door and opened it. He turned his head to the side, but did not look at Sherlock as he addressed him in a soft, loaded voice:

"_Do not make me do this again, Sherlock."_

And then he was gone, the door slamming violently behind him.

* * *

><p>An hour later, Molly and Mycroft were back on the plane, flying back to England. They sat in their same seats, Mycroft sitting still as Molly took care of his hand. She spoke in a soft voice. "I made sure he listened to the instructions I gave him. He's given me his word that he will not leave his hideout until he is healed, and conduct all his work from his computer until then." She gulped. "I reminded him to be careful, to finish his mission, and come home to those who love him and end this nightmare that Moriarty put us all in."<p>

Mycroft gave a small nod, his gaze on his lap. All of the anger she'd seen from him an hour ago had vanished, replaced by something…haunted and filled with pain. It made her think about the horrible thing that Sherlock had said…she knew that it could never be true, but she also knew that there had to be a very painful history and reason as to why he would ever say that.

With compassion and determination, Molly reached out and lifted Mycroft's chin with her finger, making sure he met her eyes. "I will not ask, but I will always listen." She meant it with her whole heart, and she needed him to know that this was a solemn and true promise.

And thankfully, he did. He only nodded, but the look in his eyes said all of the things that he couldn't say. In that moment, if Mycroft had believed in angels, he would have sworn that Molly Hooper was one.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **_A bit of an angsty one here. Necessary, I think, especially considering the circumstances the two of them are in. I didn't have the energy or the brains to go into more details about Sherlock's big mistake – wanted to keep the focus on our two main characters – but it's probably along the lines of Sherlock jumping the gun on a key player in the network, overestimating himself or really impatient to get back home. Also, you see that there are some family secrets yet to be revealed…why indeed would Sherlock say such a horrible, and untrue, thing?_


End file.
